Monarch Caterpillar, Under Watch By Young Eyes Courtesy & Copyright 2020, Jennifer Burghardt Dowd, Photographer https://raeenvironmentalinc.orgIn the northeast region of Utah nestled between the Wellsville Mountains and the Bear River Range, Cache Valley and the surrounding landscapes begin to show the first signs of spring. Wildflowers emerge on the hillsides, birds return to the valley floor and various native plants produce and deliver the timely first round of regional food sources to host our diverse pollinator populations. I am eager this year to see if we will get to experience the return of the beloved monarch butterfly, an iconic long-distance migrator that has made a noticeable presence in our valley for generations. Unfortunately, with numbers critically low for the third consecutive year, their return to Utah’s summer breeding grounds remains uncertain.
Monarch on Sunflower Courtesy & Copyright 2020, Jennifer Burghardt Dowd, Photographer https://raeenvironmentalinc.orgScientists have been tracking the population of western monarchs by conducting overwinter counts of individuals clustered in the California coastal regions. During the annual 2020 Thanksgiving Count, experts reported a dismal low of only 1,914 individuals. Counts from the two previous years hovered around 30,000 individuals, the threshold that was predicted to result in a crash of the western migration. With less than 1% of the historical population remaining (which use to report in the hundreds of thousands to over a million), this has become a troubling trend. The primary reasons for the decline in the population have been attributed to loss of historical habitat, increase in pesticide use and both direct/indirect impacts of climate change.
Monarch with Habitat In Progress Sign Courtesy & Copyright 2020, Jennifer Burghardt Dowd, Photographer https://raeenvironmentalinc.orgNow more than ever sanctuary habitats containing milkweed and native nectar sources play a vital role in the ultimate success of the monarch migration. Many people have chosen to contribute to this conservation movement through the establishment of Waystations. Monarch Waystations offer the promise of protected habitats with the establishment of adequate seasonal resources dispersed between overwintering sites and summer breeding grounds. The idea is the more Waystations created, the better connectivity between habitats, the more robust the migratory pathway. The added benefit of additional resource sanctuaries for critical pollinator populations which ultimately determine the success of our agricultural industry is noteworthy.
Monarch Waystation Sign Courtesy & Copyright 2020, Jennifer Burghardt Dowd, Photographer https://raeenvironmentalinc.orgWaystations can be integrated into a variety of existing landscapes, including home gardens, business establishments, government buildings, local parks and schools. In the state of Utah, there are 59 registered Monarch Waystations. I host Waystation 26876 through Monarch Watch, #44 in the state. 5 specific criteria are needed to certify a Waystation (through monarchwatch.org): 1) A designated space, minimum of 100 square feet; 2) Native milkweeds (to serve as host plants); 3) A variety of seasonal nectar sources (natives preferred); 4) A water source and: 5) Shelter. The commitment to avoid the use of pesticides is also critical for success.
Milkweed Seed Courtesy & Copyright 2020, Jennifer Burghardt Dowd, Photographer https://raeenvironmentalinc.orgLocal movements and backyard organizations have become monumental in the collection and distribution of regional milkweeds and native nectar plants. If you are looking to start a Waystation of your own, that would be a good place to start. With the monarch’s recent designation as a candidate species under the Endangered Species Act, and their listing put on hold (as “warranted but precluded” due to lack of funding), we are in a race against time to save the migration. My backyard will continue to provide a reliable source of habitat plants for as much of Utah and it can support. As I package up another round of Showy milkweed seeds (Asclepias speciosa) destined for a Utah classroom, I remain hopeful. Our next generation of environmental stewards, under the careful guidance of passionate enthusiasts, is paving the way as they witness the plight of the monarch unfold before their very eyes.
This is Jenny Dowd with Western Monarch Pollinator Pathways, and I’m wild about Utah
The Wild About Utah archives are managed by the Bridgerland Audubon Society: https://wildaboututah.org
For Information On Registering a Monarch Waystation:
To meet the criteria required for certifying a garden as an official Monarch Waystation, please visit Monarch Watch: https://monarchwatch.org/waystations.
Monarch Caterpillar Feeding on Milkweed Courtesy & Copyright 2020, Jennifer Burghardt Dowd, Photographer https://raeenvironmentalinc.orgSchools can contact RAE Environmental Inc. to find out how to participate in their Utah School Monarch Waystation Program (https://raeenvironmentalinc.org)
Swainson’s Thrush & Western Meadowlark Courtesy US NPS Robbie Hannawacker, Photographer (thrush) Albert Myran, Photographer (meadowlark) Combined by Patrick KellyThe serenades around where I live begin early. Today it was during the full moon at 3am, in a break from the blessed rain. The chorus is mostly of robins, but one voice sticks out as new; a call I do not know; a love letter to curiosity of who could make such a call. I have hope that I’ll be able to find who sings like a Geddy Lee who has found Xanadu. It isn’t the first mystery bird I’ve encountered though.
I do remember my first, how can one not, that first call which bamboozled and hypnotized me years ago, both awakening and soothing that inside of me which makes me human. I used to live in a small cabin in the middle of Alaska, and during the eternal summers I’d hear this bird’s haunting call lull me to sleep. It was a Weddell seal of the woods. A UAP that sang.
At first, I didn’t want to know who it was filling the woods with quicksilver honeydew, drop by drop. I somehow felt that the magic would be lost, that by knowing the source I would ruin the spring. But then one day, the music maker appeareth. He was brown, squat, with a small thin beak, just sitting on a spruce branch at my eye level. When he sang, I found I was not disappointed. The Eden of unknowing bliss was not left behind. Instead, where once I saw an it, now I saw a thou. He was singing. The noble, sylvan Swainson’s Thrush.
This trend continued on for me, and once I moved to Utah, I found even more new strange songs. I learned to let the choir sing from their perches, and wait for them to show themselves. The newest singer I discovered was last summer, out in the last intact meadows which border the Bonneville Shoreline trail in Cache Valley, fast disappearing to the grind of half-acre plots and four-car garages which confuse godliness with gaudiness. In their loss, also deplete becomes their song.
Once I heard this new serenader, an avian Van Halen, I began repeating the trail just to hear his song. Like the thrush, which at this point was many years prior, his song seemed to have no source, it simply emanated from the golden grasses and muted sage which, pressed by wind, created a woven mat of gestalt terroir and echoed off the small crevices which led to the mountainsides.
So days and weeks went by as I hiked with my dogs. I’d keep an ear to the pastures and when I heard him, or his premonition upon the wind, I’d freeze and bend in. And sure enough, a certain day came where on this hike I listened, heard, and then saw him. Speckled brown back, golden chest with a black chevron, perched atop a scrubby little juniper calling into the wind. A Western Meadowlark at work.
So if this summer you hear a new sound in the full moon morning and don’t know who makes it, don’t shy, ignore, nor give up. The best thing you can do is to keep listening and keep waiting, be it your first or just most recent. Eventually the caller will pull the curtain back of their own accord and be revealed. So here’s my wish of good luck to you, that you will find what you’re listening for out in the world.
You can see the story unfold if you visit the Nibley Firefly Park after dark. But please tread carefully. For fireflies, this is their Grand Finale. It has taken two years for them to grow from larvae to flying adults. Now they are choosing a mate. By July they will have laid their eggs in the nearby marshy ground and their life cycle will come to an end.
Any artificial light brought to the scene (such as flashlights and car headlights) seriously disrupts the courtship flashing. If you visit the Nibley Firefly Park this summer, please keep your light to the barest minimum, and – enjoy the party.
Zion National Park, Courtesy US National Park Service“…[A] word of caution: Do not jump into your automobile next June and rush out to the canyon country hoping to see some of that which I have attempted to evoke in these pages. In the first place you can’t see anything from a car; you’ve got to get out…and walk, better yet crawl, on hands and knees, over the sandstone and through the thornbush and cactus. When traces of blood begin to mark your trail you’ll see something, maybe.”
Ed Abbey penned those words waxing elegiac on a barstool in Hoboken, New Jersey. I read them decades later on yellowed pages in a rain-drenched tent somewhere in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. When the rain stopped and summer ended, I enthusiastically disregarded Abbey’s first cautioning. I jumped into my car and rushed to the desert.
Another decade has passed since then, and Utah has become home as I’ve spent those years heeding Abbey’s instructions: walking and crawling over sandstone, through thornbush and cactus, blazing trails with spots of blood, finding and falling in love with places. The Colorado, the Green, the San Juan; Bears Ears, Cedar Mesa, Comb Ridge; Arches, Bryce, Canyonlands, Capitol Reef, and Zion; the named and nameless places in between—the cloven topography where we slogged through flash flood debris, broke through the ice of slot canyon pools, and howled at the setting sun flashing shades of red we’d never seen. After a time, the trails I blazed no longer led to vistas, but to memories.
It’s not just the canyon country I fell in love with, though. I came for the desert, but I stayed for the mountains. And after walking their well-blazed trails, I shambled down the ones overgrown and choked with disuse; and when those ran out, crawled on hands and knees. And I saw things. More importantly, I found something: perspective—of place and of home—perspective gained from the many secrets divulged by mountains and running waters, red rock amphitheaters and alpine meadows. It has been a great privilege to share the stories of those places with you all. They are my love letters to their secrets. My family is off to find and fall in love with new places, now, but I’ll always be Wild About Utah!
Credits:
Photos: Courtesy US National Park Service
Additional Sound: Courtesy & Copyright J. Chase and K.W. Baldwin and Friend Weller
Text: Josh Boling, Edith Bowen Laboratory School, Utah State University https://edithbowen.usu.edu/
Additional Reading Links: Josh Boling Utah A Love Story
